


The Guilty Ones

by Lolymoon



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Episode: s02e15 The Queen Is Dead, Evil Queen | Regina Mills & Snow White | Mary Margaret Blanchard Friendship, Gen, although they're really not friends here, and some confrontation between two sworn enemies, some thoughts on Johanna and Regina backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-25 19:06:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4972804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lolymoon/pseuds/Lolymoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grey was the right color for her unexpected grief.<br/>“I won't say I'm sorry.”<br/>Her voice echoed strangely in the stiff morning air, both muffled and too loud, it seemed to early in the world for  someone to speak.<br/>“You know I won't. Not me. That wouldn't change anything. It never did.”</p><p>-</p><p>Sometimes it's too late to turn back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Guilty Ones

She appeared by the grave the hour before dawn, when the sky wasn't even a sky yet, only a woolen winter coat swathing a sleepy Storybrooke.

It would have been senseless to come in broad daylight, naturally, when she could be seen and shot down, her presence perceived as the insult it truly was.

Murderers aren't supposed to seek penance at their victims' graves, after all.

She hadn't gone in the dead of night either. Contrary to popular beliefs, evil witches had better things to do with their time than hauting cemeteries under the moonlight (such as tossing and turning uselessly in bed while seeking for a sleep that would not come), and that brave Johanna was hardly worth the dramatic gesture.

So she told herself, staring at the engraved name on the headstone, pursing her lips and pushing back the ache, pushing back the guilt.

She had tried not to feel it. Not to feel _anything_.

But she was now kneeling at the foot of the grave, the little white pebbles digging in her flesh through her pants, the scents of rain and freshly moved earth nauseating, and obviously, she'd failed.

Guilt was all she breathed in that grey hour that suited them both, Johanna for her life of abnegation, herself for her own questionable morality.

Grey was the right color for her unexpected grief.

 

“I won't say I'm sorry.”

 

Her voice echoed strangely in the stiff morning air, both muffled and too loud, it seemed to early in the world for someone to speak.

“You know I won't. Not me. That wouldn't change anything. It never did.”

The half-dead leaves made barely a whisper in the trees as they stirred gently, and there wasn't a bird to sing, not one familiar sound to answer her.

It was silly, talking to a stone, talking to the dead that never woke up, except when they shouldn't, except when she doesn't want them to, except to torment her anew.

It was silly, childish, like those prayers sent to the wind, unheard by the fairies they were supposed to reach, but she couldn't help herself.

She had no one else to talk to but the departed and the memories.

“You were still loyal to her. After all this time. Even though that loyalty won you nothing but misery and ignorance. Faithful, kind dog you are. And look at what thanks you got for all your pain. She had forgotten all about you. You could have lived on for long, simple, peaceful years. You could have lived. But you chose to be stupid.”

Her voice dropped lower as she glanced at the ostentatious flowers like stains of too-bright colors on the otherwise modest tomb.

“Look at how death made them care for you.”

She felt like she wanted to spit, her teeth, her heart burning with acid, with a rage too great to swallow. Her mouth watering with anger even as her eyes stung. She thought about another servant's grave, up on a hill, a lonely (empty) grave and a loneliest burial, no one but her, her father, and the stable master, everyone too afraid of her mother to show, no friend, no family to mourn the life of the bravest, kindest man she'd ever known.

“Was it worth it,” she whispered, her lips curled up in repugnance, her face ugly, and she didn't know what she'd expected, but the silence is disappointing.

Then the wind finally rose and just as suddenly, the iron-hot pliers in her chest loosened, leaving a strange kind of burn on her heart, one wet as tears.

“You showed me kindness,” she admitted finally, breaking her voice over the words, and the wind was still blowing, still soothing, taking her back on the road to rememberance.

She remembered – a girl huddled in the corner of her bedchambers, chilled to the bone after long hours sitting on the cold hard floor, a girl shivering and weeping without tears after she'd been sent away from the King's bed, her wedding night over, her duty done, the blood rightly spilled, and she remembered the warm, worn hands on her shoulders and a strong, safe smell of oils and clean clothes, and a calm voice, “come here, love” and she remembered the bath and the warmth and how her hair was gently brushed, and how the woman had sighed, deeply, “What a sad world this is (she was braiding her hair then, without a single painful pull, magic in her gnarled fingers), a world were children are sold for power.”

She remembered – a bright morning with lingering stars and her asking Johanna shyly “Why are you being kind to me? You should hate me for taking your beloved Queen's place, like everybody else,” and the woman had only tightened the strings of her corset (she wasn't her chambermaid, she'd been Eva's, she was Snow's nurse, but Regina's own servant had once more been dismissed by the King for upsetting his darling child – she had dared deny Snow's access to the Queen's chambers under the absurd claim that the Queen was sick, and Snow had cried and cried for not being able to comfort her dear step-mother, and the King got outraged as if blood had been spilled in lieu of tears, and the maid had been chastised and sent away – not a rare occurrence, and as always Johanna was filling the gap until a new chambermaid would meet the approval of both father and daughter) and she had whispered, like a frightened secret, “Her majesty Eva hadn't always been a kind woman. She had to grow into her role.” Johanna helped her put on her necklace, and stopped, looking right into her eyes through the mirror. “She hadn't been vert happy with the King either,” and Regina remembered, remembered it well, that overwhelming feeling of relief, the almost irrepressible urge to cry because finally, someone noticed, finally, someone validated that pain, and it was real and for a few seconds she wasn't alone with it.

She remembered – sending Snow off to meet her bloody end and the girl escaping and the endless chasing and the string of lies that were being written and weaved across the realm, and there was Johanna's fearful and anguished look, and her request, one day, to let her go. “I understand some of your grievance against the young princess, perhaps better than most, but I cannot let you defile her name and sit idly by. I won't watch you destroy her. I ask to leave the Palace, Madame. And if I am to die for this choice, then so be it. I prefer death than to witness any more of this madness.” She stood proud and strong and bolder than her rank give her any right to be, and Regina tried, she tried to feel the rage and the betrayal she oughted to, but there was only a bone-weary sadness, and her voice was almost too soft. “So this is where your loyalty lies? To a brat who barely treated you any better than the dolls she threw onto the floor when she got tired of them? To a dead King? To an old crown?” “I am sorry, your Majesty,” she had said, final. “But it is so indeed.” “Go, then. Go, and never cross my path again. There is no telling what I would do to you.”

The words mocked her, ringing still loud and clear in her ear while the memory faded around her, and there was nothing before her eyes but morning mist and gray stones.  
She slowly put her hand on Johanna's grave, her touch tentative, as if afraid.

“I made a mistake.”

Her cheeks were wet now.

“I don't know what to do. I can't – I can't fix anything.”

She lowered her forehead to the cold, damp stone, her shoulders shaking, the words hard to get out between painful gasps and pants.

“What have I done?”

Her Mother – had orchestrated her whole life, calculated her every impulse, even the few brave and good ones she used to have, and she'd weaved the pernicious web in which she'd fallen, again, as she would always fall.

She chose wrong but there's no road that can take her back now.

She choked and coughed on her tears, too thick with guilt, too hot with shame, and struggled with her breathing to the point she thought she might faint from holding it all in, until at last, she regained control.

That's when she heard the voice she hated most in all the realms.

The most familiar voice of all.

Snow White.

 

“How dare you.”

 

.

 

Snow hadn't sleep the night after the funeral.

The scene kept replaying in her head. Cora's smile. Johanna's wretched gasp. Regina holding the heart up and _squeezing_ it. David's strong hand on her back. You killed my mother. A body flying, glass breaking, a wet, crunching noise.  
Silence.  
_Such a good girl._

Her mind always paused on the same moments.  
It wasn't Johanna's last look.  
It wasn't Cora's sly smirk as she watched her making all the right conclusions.  
She couldn't think of anything but Regina's shocked expression as Cora revealed how she had made her daughter the Queen.  
As she sent Johanna flying off the window.  
That flicker of fear, of sickness.  
Then the mask, dead eyes, fake smile, toneless voice.

It was something she couldn't afford to think about.  
Down this road was nothing but hurt and betrayal and too many issues to count.

She couldn't let Regina be anything but the monster she was.

The monster she'd always been. The monster that couldn't love, that never loved her, the monster that could only pretend, and play, and wound.

She was playing with her again, screwing with her mind, because the pity and guilt she felt for Johanna, the horror and hatred she had against Cora, it didn't compare to her obsession, the need to fight Regina, to defeat her, to hurt her, but worse, but worse, it didn't compare with her endless worrying of what she was doing, what she was thinking, what she was feeling, what had been the meaning of those anguished eyes.

It didn't compare with the sensation she was mourning the murderer instead of her victim.

Johanna's funeral had been a gloomy, depressing affair. A lot of people had gathered, but you could count on the fingers of one hand the ones who had truly known her.

Who had wondered if they really had. If they had really took the time for it.

The answer came easily, and it wasn't the one she'd wanted.

The mourners had come because of her, naturally, Snow White, their princess (their queen? The word never felt right in her mouth, in her head, the word was painted on Regina's face, forever crowned with a power she didn't feel she possessed) and while she had met mostly sorrowful looks and sympathetic smiles, she'd also met a muffled anger, an elusive resentment that didn't dare be too bold but that was still there.

Because once again the people had lost one of their own in the War of the Queens.

Because once again Regina had made her weak.

Because she had so many opportunities to stop her before – and she never did.

Because as she recalled her fond memories of Johanna in a heartfelt speech, it was Regina's face she saw in her mind, Regina's laughter she heard, Regina's words she remembered and all the time spend together she hadn't know had been a lie.

And she had felt that old love that didn't want to fade showing on her face like a stain, for everyone to stare at and condemn in horror.

She had wanted desperatly to be left alone by the grave, to be given time, just an hour, _just five minutes_ , five minutes to deal with the mess in her head and in her heart, but being a hero, being a wife, being a friend, means that she never gets that luxury, it means that she's never granted any time or space to deal, as if being left alone with her thoughts was the worst thing that could happen to her, as if that would make her break away from her loved ones forever, remind them of that place they will never be able to reach no matter how close they are, the place that holds her most inner desires, her deepest shames.

 

So she'd gone back this morning, getting up before dawn, feeling like the first soul awake in Storybrooke. A lost soul.

And as she neared the grave she heard a voice most loathed and most loved talking words that made no sense, that she refused to understand.

And when Regina had begun crying, she'd felt a surge of white, hot rage piercing through her belly.

How dared she. How dared she cry for this woman, this _servant_ that meant nothing to her, how dared she feel guilt for _that_ after everything she'd done to her, _she_ was the one Regina should be feeling guilty about, _she_ was the one whose life she ruined, _she_ was the one deserving of her apology.

She pushed back her mother's voice screeching in anguish at the evil in her heart, pushed back David's ever faithful smile and Emma's need, pushed back her shame to hold on to her entitlement.

 

“How dare you.”

 

Regina's body jolted as if it had been struck by a live wire. She whirled her head around, dark hair whipping against her cheeks, her lips curl in an aggressive snarl, but her eyes wet, wide and frightened.

Until they hardened like they always did, emptied themselves slowly of all emotions like a body bleeding dry.

“She died because of you, and you think crying on her grave will make it better? You have no right, you hear me, no right to ask her for forgiveness.”

“Well it's a good thing I didn't,” Regina sneered, slowly getting up, brushing the dirt off her knees in a prim Mayor Mills' fashion that immediately got to Snow's nerves and riled her up higher.

“You have no right to be here.”

“Because you do? Tell me, Snow White, how do you sleep at night not knowing the number of people that have gone to their death because they made the mistake of believing you were something grander than the pitiful rat you truly are?”

She sucked in a breath, Regina's words hitting deep, always deeper than she would have liked, and she didn't know what was so open in her that Regina always found the breach, the flaw, the pain to exploit.

“I can't believe that you would blame me for the people you've killed. You know what, I do believe it. Because I've never seen someone as delusional as you are, Regina.”

“Am I? Their death is on you, Snow, I have given you the chance, the chance to step away, the chance to live a merry life with you shepherd, far away from my kingdom, and you didn't take it. You didn't take it, because your pride was more important to you than the fate of your beloved subject. So yes, princess, their blood is on your hands as well as on mine.”

There was a sadistic glee in Regina's smile, and at the same time, a slight twitch at the corner of her lips, a tense line at her forehead, and she was breathing hard, too hard even for someone trying to tear her enemy down with her words. She was wild around the edge, her eyes darting away from her, unfocused, there was sweat gathering on her brow, a damp echo to the tears barely drying on her cheeks. There was something wrong about her, something even more wrong than her mad mind and evil heart and warped vision.

She looked about to break.

“You know we won't let you and your mother win Regina. I won't fight fair anymore. I won't. I gave you one chance, one last chance to realize what you were doing and join our side, and you didn't take it. And I will make sure – I swear on this grave, I will make sure that you'll regret it.”

She watched Regina lick her lips, her eyes still shifting, and it unnerved her, vexed her, because in all their fights Regina always looked at her with a breathtaking intensity, as if her whole world revolved around her in that moment, as if her universe was shrinking to the contours of Snow White's face. But now she was – avoiding, slipping away, and her tone was strangely calm, almost subdued when she remarked quietly, “Yes. I suppose it was my last chance, then.”

She gazed far away, and Snow took a step forward, clenching her fists, ready to strike her if that was what it took to have Regina look at her, really look at her like she oughted to, like she deserved to be looked at by the woman who had wronged her so.

Regina's eyes snapped back to her, and suddenly the focus was back in place – and so was the mask.

“I'll be careful with your promises, Snow White. I don't think you have what it takes to deliver.”

“I am not afraid of you. Or your mother.”

Regina chuckled, a cold, shattered sound, and her eyes glazed over with dark memories.

“There's something very wrong with that statement. Believe me, she can do more than kill your old nanny. If you think that hurt, you should prepare for worlds of pain.”

Regina suddenly bolted forward, so fast Snow didn't have the chance to see if she had actually leapt or if magic had transported her, and she grasped her chin roughly, holding her head up, a threat so familiar it was sickeningly sweet. The queen's breath ghosted over her lips when she spoke in a low murmur, before vanishing in the grey mist, leaving behind a purple cloud:

“Whatever you do, Snow, don't make the wrong choice.”

 

Snow stood there long after Regina was gone, long after her perfume had been sucked in by the chilly wind.

She'll remember those words as she'd stand over a sobbing daughter holding a corpse in her arms.

She'll remember those words as mad, outraged eyes would sear into her own.

She'll remember those words as the broken face of a little girl would drawl with the mouth of a dying woman, “You did this.”

She'll remember and she'll want to cry, too.

 

_Don't make the wrong choice._

**Author's Note:**

> I don't want to seem to be begging but... feedback is really important. I'll be so grateful if you cared to tell me what you thought :)


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